


Winded

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Book 6: Checkmate, Extended Scene, F/M, Jerott is right for once and as such ends up being wrong about everything, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: An extension of the scene by the Luce in Checkmate. Jerott tries to understand how wrong he has been about Francis' relationship with Philippa.A prompt given to me by Erinaceina as an extension of whumptober :D
Relationships: Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny/Philippa Somerville, Jerott Blyth & Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Winded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erinaceina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinaceina/gifts).



"There is no way that I can go on with it any longer."

Beneath the cover of scrubby woodland, beyond a shady patch of hidden quagmire, the dry summer leaves whispered with movement. Flies were already gathering at the broken body of the Isabel nearby and the other horse switched its tail, its ears turning as it became aware of the encroaching smell of death. It chewed its bit restlessly and dropped its head to snort at the muddy ground.

The sense of dusk fell heavily about two figures beneath the trees: a blond man curled in tension against the thin trunk of a birch, his hands pressed enclosing over his face, and his black-haired companion, who sat awkwardly close by him with a troubled gaze, his eyes unable to settle on their surroundings.

Saved from himself once more, the Marshal of France breathed heavily into tapered fingers that were as delicate and fair as church wax, and the trembling in his shoulders made tendrils of sweat-stained gossamer curls quiver against his collar.

With one arm resting on a raised knee and the other supporting his weight, the hand

scraping reflexively at the damp soil and old birch seeds, Jerott Blyth found himself lost for words. He felt as though he had been the one cast against the hard earth and tree roots: his stomach was heavy as rocks and his throat dry as dust. The objections, the questions that filled his mind crowded and choked one another, stopping his breath as though he had been winded.

The coiled, strained body beside him juddered spasmodically, and in Lymond's hopeless voice Jerott had heard the grip of control grow weary and loosen. The reins that bridled existence had slackened momentarily; their worn fibres frayed: _I can't_. Those were words Jerott could not recall hearing him utter ever before, the words of a child that had walked as far as he could manage: this despair was a fearful thing to witness in one who had endured so much.

And all these months, Jerott had voiced his concerns about the honour of a married woman; fretted, on edge, about the restraint of a man who had achieved complete mastery of himself without any of the prayers or the companionship of the Order to guide him. Because no matter what he claimed, a man like that was used to getting whatever he desired, whenever he chose to take it, and all the experiences by which the world judged Lymond spoke to this: the Russian mistress; the bastard son; the entire d'Albon family besotted. And many, like Jerott, knew of more besides: the apricot-haired teenager Lymond had battled like a wildcat in Dumbarton, the adoring multitudes of the court, and the smell of spikenard on pale skin beneath the Tunisian stars.

Jerott had supposed the danger came from a lack of care: from a lass's childish affection for the golden figurehead, whose star had risen through half of the short lifetime in which she had known him. It had seemed obvious to expect that a man of Lymond's maturity might take such feeling lightly, being offered its like by one and all wherever he went.

Who would have guessed that the trouble lay rather in an excess of care?

Jerott had always said that Lymond should have remained in Russia, and now knew he had been right for all the wrong reasons. The military master of all the Tsar's lands, the King's Marshal, champion of young Queen Mary - racked and ruined by want of a schoolgirl from Hexham.

It was an uncharitable thought, but an honest one. Jerott did not know what he could do to help a man so cornered, so exquisitely outplayed by love's ironies. Whatever now came between Lymond and marital bliss, Jerott barely had the imagination to understand the failings of his own relationship, let alone those of another.

Marthe would have told Lymond to go and take what was already his.

Jerott's fists tightened against the earth and the air, and he remembered her role in this: always driving Lymond further along the path to devastation. What could be done now, to pull him back? He would take no other woman, would not return to the marriage. And he had allowed the process of separation to eke out because of a suddenly realised feeling, only to find he had pushed too far, left it too long, and the girl had shifted her own affections elsewhere.

He was a married man without a marriage, and that, at least, Jerott Blyth understood all too well. Though he could not dwell on the hollow acceptance in Lymond's voice, he could suggest another suitable distraction.

Beside him, Lymond's shudders had lessened. His hands no longer pressed with such violence into his face; the rose-bruised fingertips had abandoned their assault on aching eye sockets and now rested at the dull gold of his hairline. Behind this cage of finely wrought bone and sinew Lymond blinked slowly, his mouth agape like a bird in the hunter's hand.

"It's dark," Jerott told him softly.

The citrine lashes glittered, even without a light source, and Jerott felt, as much as really saw, the weight of a seeing gaze fall on him. "Yes."

"So you cannot go to her. You cannot leave." Jerott got to his feet and looked down on the thicket of fair curls. He leaned against the tree and left his free hand available, if it was required. "And you cannot stay like this," he repeated.

Lymond dropped his hands and let his head fall back against the tree trunk - he took no care in the gesture, and Jerott flinched at the sound of his skull hitting the wood. Lymond sighed, a hiss of frustration pushed between tightly wired jaws. The graceful shapes of his hands fell slack over his knees and he stared at the blackening hulk of shadow that had been the Isabel.

Jerott gathered a quick breath before an admonition or snapped command could come. It made Lymond look up sharply.

"So, as before, no one will know. You must stay - then stay. But tell me, as you would tell Archie, if you feel it coming on. Let me help you hide it from the men at least."

For a moment longer than Jerott could stand, Lymond looked up at him with open gratitude. Tiredness pinned the skin close around his delicate features, exposing the narrow skull, round sockets, cheeks drawn and dark with shade. His eyes filled with the colour of the sky, and a pain that Jerott could not look upon.

He turned away as Lymond spoke: "Thank you."


End file.
